Spectrum
by Iamasimplehobbit
Summary: A collection of short stories about Lord Elrond of Rivendell and the young men he cared for, who grew to be rangers - protectors of middle earth against a rising, unprecedented evil. Slight au, synesthesia!Elrond (fluff, hurt and comfort, angst, humour, updated on a regular basis.)
1. Monochrome (Part I)

When he thought of each of his fosterlings in turn, Elrond was greeted in his mind's eye with a flash of colour - which was often accompanied by an emotion; something like the background tones of a canvas.

Whenever one of his wards would speak, their words were hued with the colour that Elrond's mind had attached to them - becoming part of their essence, their presence. Their footsteps echoed with blue, green, yellow, red, purple; reflecting on the walls and floors and making Elrond happy, because he was surrounded by life.

In time, the pigments occasionally shifted with as the boys matured - sometimes brightening as they entered their prime, or dulling with the approaching winter of old age.

And though he tried to resist it, a violent end coloured his foster sons in new and unpleasant ways; at first, intensified with his grief, the colours became too intense and nauseating to bear. Elrond could not say the name of the dead for many days after. The new stain blocked from view the happier times, like blots of thick, dark ink on what had been a beautiful painting.

Isildur was a murky greenish blue, like that of stagnant river - and the feeling was uncertainty.

There were many blotches on the elf's life now. Some still wet and raw like leakage from an open wound. But even he, as a healer knew not the best way to treat such a sore on the long term. He merely stitched himself back together and moved forward. Always foreward.

There was one, however, who remained distinct to Elrond's mind. Of course each child he cared for was unique, but Arathorn - the first of his name - occupied a niche of his own.

It began with his father, Arassuil; who had started boyhood as an angry red flush that had grown into a pulsating viseral crimson. But he had always been wrathful - his movements thunderous and his voice carrying like the high pitched squeal of a dying rabbit. Occasionally it lowered to an adder's hiss, which was when he was a this most dangerous.

He had not enjoyed his time at Imraldis - and there were several ripped books and cracked porcelain vases that stood as relics of his rage. Elrond has always been surprised how a tiny body could fit so much temper.

But to give him his due, Arassuil had fulfilled his destiny as protecter for the gentler folk from Sauron's spreading corruption - and as predictably as the frost easy year, bore a son to carry on his duty.

Whereas Arassuil's mother had dug her heels into the ground, and did not relinquish her son to the elves until they were two years delayed. This may have been an expression of motherly love, but Elrond was sure it had great consequences down the line.

In contrast, Arathorn arrived right on schedule - one could even say he was early - on a drizzly day in the harvest season.

If Arassuil had developed any tenderness in fatherhood he did not show it then. The child, only five summers old, was deposited with all the care one would take with an unwanted puppy. Wrapped in a cloak that probably was a parting gift from his mother, and left on Elrond's doorstep for him to collect when ready.

His father did linger long enough to see his son picked up, but the moment he was - Arassuil turned his horse sharply and fled into the horizon. Or so Elrond had been told.

Arathorn silently followed the Elevn lord to his office, the cloak dragging behind him like a great wedding gown - when asked if he would like to be carried, he had shaken his head.

In the end, he perched himself on the very edge of one of Elrond's arm chairs; the one closest to the fire, as the elf had been concerned that he might be cold. But even after sitting for a while, Arathorn did not drop the cloak from his shoulders - nor did he request anything, not food, or a drink, or an explanation.

His face, though round and childish, seemed oddly knowing and resided. He had not the quick, clumsy movements nor made any of the soft sounds of most children his age - which always seemed to be tinted canary yellow to Elrond.

Arathorn breathed as quietly as a dormouse, and if he did shuffle around to get comfortable, it was muffled by the cloak.

Finally Elrond reached over to pull it away; wanting if nothing to get a better look at his new charge. He had expected the child to cry, and cling to its conforting blanket; but the boy did not. His dark, burnt wood brown eyes widened only slightly and he watched intently as Elrond deposited his mother's gift on a nearby peg by the door. Then, assured it would not run away, relaxed just slightly.

Arathorn was lightly framed, but long in arm and leg which hinted to him being quite tall when full grown. He seemed even more dwarfed by the large chair in which he occupied. He had Arassuil's vague outline, but his looks had been more informed by his mother - _Mormeril_ \- who had hair and eyes that reminded Elrond of midnight, and a voice that was a rich, velvety purple.

"Are you tired, _penneth nin?_ "

Another head shake.

Elrond smiled comfortingly. "Do not be afraid. We met once before, do you remember? I came to visit you and your _Nana_ and _Adar._ "

A nod this time.

So, the boy was not talkative. Erestor would be pleased. He had disliked their more nosy fosterlings.

It was curious to think Arassuil and Arathorn had sprouted from the same family tree. Apart from a passing phyical resemblance, there was nothing to say that this somber, inward, stoney faced boy was any relation to the brash, mischievous, whirlwind-in-bottle that was his father.

So far, Elrond hadn't gotten so much as a flicker of colour.

Normally children shone the brightest. But no, not this one.

However, he did note that the space around Arathorn was saturated somehow - as if he were looking through an aged window. And still he'd yet to say a single word. He did not wish to force the child to chat if he was not up to it; but the silence was becoming oppressive.

Elrond was glad when the rain started to fall, and the tip tap punctuated the air.

Arathorn too, seemed to appreciate it, he turned to watch the drops fall upon the window.

"Do you like the rain?"

Another nod, facing away from him.

Elrond tapped his fingers on one of the leather arms of his seat. "I know this will be very different for you, and that you must miss your parents. But once it is safe they will come and visit, would you like that?"

Arathorn turned around. His brow was slightly wrinkled, as if he hadn't understood.

Elrond glanced towards the cloak that still hung from where he had put it earlier. "...your mother? Would you like to see her soon, Arathorn?"

The boy's expression shifted as if too say, _'ah, now that makes more sense'_ and once again he nodded.

Perhaps the plural, 'parents', that is his mother _and_ his father wanting to see him was something of an unknown concept. Elrond was not feeling optimistic about Arassuil's parenting thus far.

 _"Adar?"_

One of his twins stepped in, Elrohir, his steps were lavender - his brother's a deep Nolofinwean blue. Elladan had much in him of Findekáno; or so had said Elrond's mother in law.

"Aye, _ion nin?_ "

Elrohir asked if he may escort Arathorn to bed, since the hour was getting late, and he suspected his father might desire to get some work done before retiring himself for the night.

Elrond frowned, then looked outside, and it was indeed darkening. How long had he and Arathorn just sat in the quiet?

The elf looked to the child, who scooted off his seat and went to the younger elf. Elrohir smiled, and offered a hand which the boy took; it was so small and delicate, almost like that of a porcelain doll.

"I could read to you if you wanted? Before you sleep?"

But before disappearing into the hall with Elrohir, Arathorn took a pause, and raised his head to look the elf in the eye for the first time. Elrond felt uncomfortably transparent under such a penetrative stare.

"...Goodnight." It was so soft Elrond nearly missed it, a whisper that was almost lost in the expanse of the room.

Elrond blinked, but then hastily replied. "Goodnight, Arathorn I shall see you-"

The door shut with a soft, tree green click. "-in the morning."

Elrond was alone.

Sighing heavily, he leaned back into his armchair, the fire was slowly dimming - shutting his eyes, but everything was shaded with the hue of Arathorn's words.

Grey.

And the emotion?

Melencholy.

Penneth nin - my child

Nana and Adar - mother and father

Ion nin - my son


	2. Sepia

The leaves crunched sharply underfoot like thousands of tiny bones - and Elrond winced. The forest had its own music, and this was one of the many notes in its natural symphony, but it was the elf's least favourite. It always reminded him of that musty, damp smell of mould, and the murky browns of mud puddles. Nor did he like the way the leaves his tread echo throughout the woods, alerting every creature nearby to his presence.

Elrond was not an elf of the outdoors - his brother had occupied that role when they were children, while he himself recoiled from dirt, stones, and sharp twigs; which Elros liked to collect in his hair and clothes. Much to the despair of their guardians.

But one who didn't mind the crunch of leaves - in fact he took joy in scooping up handfuls and throwing them upwards - was Arador.

He was entering his early pubescence, a confusing time of growth spurts, unexpected hair growth, and a loss of a child's contentment in their own being. The young man inched closer towards inheriting the mantle of chieftain; a concept that seemed so far when he was a child, that it was almost imaginary.

But Elrond was always keen to allow his grand-nephews to linger in their childhood's as long as they desired to. For he knew that adulthood was a much longer, and colder road. So why not stay and enjoy the sun while it was still there?

He trailed along after the young man, feeling oddly old next to such youth and exuberance. Elros had always made him feel old too – even when his brother had been white haired, had achy bones, and walked with a stick in one hand; he had an eternal, youthful heart.

Arador eyed a nearby fallen log, and without missing a moment was going over to explore. He identified correctly the moss that grew on the wood, and the insects scuttling about between the cracks. Then, he started to climb it. The log had belonged to a mature willow, that had been uprooted by age and strong winds.

The son of Argonui held out his arms for balance, before taking a few steady steps across.

Elrond did not favor the strength of such a rotten tree. "Arador? Perhaps you should-"

Arador's startled cry rang through the air as he slipped, the wood crumbling underneath his feet like paper and he fell to the forest floor with wide eyes and flailing limbs.

The elf was by his side in the blink of an eye. "Aradir? _Ion nin?_ Are you injured?"

The youth stared up at the sky. "I… do not think so?" He sat up, slowly. Upon his fall he had collected a few stay leaves.

Then Elrond laid his hand upon his chest.

Smoke. Thick and black, and so close it burned the skin and the eyeballs.

The cave was so dark you could not see your own feet.

But the _smell._

Rotten flesh, perspiration, every bodily fluid known to man. And blood, it was fresh as well.

That horrible copper smell that made Elrond see white, bile green, and jaundice yellow all at once.

It was offensive.

But the screaming, the echoed cries of pain and fear that bounced off the walls and carried on forever…

Begging, pleading, all to no end.

Elrond knew that voice.

"…Adar?"

Elrond had almost keeled over to one side, his face had drained leaving it pale and wax like, but his hand was still on Arador's chest.

His heart was beating as it should, and the elf used it as a beacon to bring him back.

"…I do believe that is enough of the wilds for one day." He muttered, managing to stand back by some miracle. "Bring forth the horses, Arador."

Arador blinked, bewildered, before standing himself and dusting off his clothes. "Yes, Adar."

He trotted off down whence they had come, whistling for their mounts to come back from gazing to carry them home.

While he was away, Elrond prayed to any Valar that would listen – for a blessing of protection.


	3. Monochrome (Part II)

The way the midday sun shone through the windows basked everything in a dull yellowish light - it put Elrond in mind of the seasickness he;d felt travelling to and from his brother's kingdom. Unlike Elros, he had never grown sea legs; it was the one thing he would have to endure when he eventually was called home to the restful place where his kind was born. At least at the end, Celebrian would be waiting - arms Outstretched, and smiling.

Elrond wondered if Men ever thought about their demise - for it was cloaked in a mysterious and somewhat terrifying unknown. Some said they faded away from the world completely but where did they fade too?

Was there a home for them beyond the veil? like this one, only without suffering and darkness?

Elrond like to think so, and he also liked to think about his brother being there - finally getting the rest he deserved.

But, as always, his priority was for the living.

But the irony was, Arathorn was like a ghost. He hovered at the corner of the elf's eye instead of coming into full view, and when Elrond turned he had already gone.

He preferred dark, cool places instead of direct sunlight. He liked to play, well - pot around the gardens with an aimless gait - when it was overcast.

"Perhaps we've adopted a sentient fungus, Adar-" Elladan quipped, he'd inherited Elros' tendency to think he was rather funny. "Or a tiny mourning widow."

Elrohir was a little more accepting of Arathorn's odd ways, he too, like Erestor had been run ragged by Arassuil's limitless energy - so was grateful for a quieter, more contemplative little brother.

The boy was otherwise no trouble. He ate the food given to him (another relief, Arassuil had been known to throw food on occasion), even showing a liking for green vegetables and salad - particularly lettuce leaves and brussel sprouts. And chose bitter dandelion tea over one sweetened with honey.

The child continued to arouse confusion.

Elrond, however, didn't mind the silence, because he wasn't truly silence.

If you looked, closely, the wheels behind those dark, obsidian eyes were ever moving - the real question was, what was he thinking about?

What thoughts could a child of five have that would trouble his mind that much?

He hadn't expected it to be answers by a trip to the tailor.

Arathorn was indeed going to be tall, so much so in the three moons that had passed his trousers and tunic were too small to be comfortable. The knees were also showing wear, thus it was time to acquire new clothes for the boy.

Brumeldir had outfitted not just Elrond's previous fosterlings, but also his own twin sons. Although his prices were premium, the extra coin was not missed when such quality work came of it.

He offered the elven lord tea while he waited, which was taken gladly - it was something of a walk to the tailor's establishment.

"My goodness!" Brumeldir exclaimed, measuring Arathorn's sleeves. "You _are_ a sprouting one!"

The boy, as usual, did not have a comment of his own to add. Although Elrond noted he was a bit stiff, almost like a wooden doll being manoeuvred around as opposed to a living child. He most likely did not like being pulled about by a stranger.

"But so well behaved! not at like the last one I saw- Who was it my lord?"

"Arassuil." Elrond said. Arathorn may have reacted to his father's name, but it was minute, a slight tilt of the head.

"Ah yes, now I remember-" The tailor tutted. "Well, I would recommend a matched set of tunic and trousers, perhaps an extra pair to be on the safe side, and a robe in a child's size for formal occasions."

Elrond nodded. "That will do."

Brumeldir made notes in a small leather notebook, then began to pull from a cupboard many different shades of cloth. The sound of them softly hitting the workbench was the same burnt orange as a monarch's wing.

Arathorn peeked over the table's edge, blinking curiously.

"Well now! would you like to pick a colour young master?" Brumeldir asked.

The boy nodded, and cast his gaze briefly over the selection. Eventually he began to pull at some sea-green cloth, but that was only to get to what was underneath. A perfectly folded section of black material, looking almost knew - as it's owner probably had not much cause to use it.

Brumeldir frowned. "Black? ...but that's the colour of mourning, wouldn't you rather have blue? or red?"

Arathorn shook his head, and for emphasis kept his hand on the chosen cloth.

"...err, are you sure? others might think someone you know has passed away."

"...my grandfather died." Arathorn said. It was always somewhat jarring to hear the boy actually talk, and the air around him to become gray. &And his father died, and his father. Lots of people in my family have died before... can I think about them? and wear black clothes?"

Brumeldir had gone a little pale. Elrond stepped in at that moment. "Yes, Arathorn, if you want to think about your ancestors then you can. And you can wear black if you desire."

Arathorn didn't quite smile, but his lips turned upwards at the edges and his eyes were happy. Brumeldir muttered something about the fee, and the time it would take to fashion the garments. Elrond paid and thanked him, before taking the boy's hand and departing.

As they stepped outside a storm cloud began to crackle above their heads.


	4. Green

You see, Adar? This is what comes of long hours at your desk-"

"Arwen-"

"And riding in the rain with no cloak-"

"Arwen. _Please_."

Elrond's capacity to enunciate the letters W and S was impaired by his congested nose, which had also swollen red and was dripping unpleasantly.

His mannish blood might be less than half, but it seemed enough to burden him with the very occasional illness - especially in times of stress.

But this year, more than most, had been full of unfortunate events.

The death of Arathorn II - far too soon, not even ten years chieftain and already slain.

Every day the orcs grew bolder, they crept nearer. It was little wonder Elrond stayed up at night.

His daughter tutted, and tucked the sheets around her father. "I've banished the twins to other duties, and distributed your work amoung Erestor and Lindir."

Elrond groaned. Everything had a mucus green tint, and even little noises - like the shuffling of sheets - made him gag as he tasted bitter bile and rotting fish at the back of his throat. He would greatly appreciate it if the world would be quiet, just for a while.

The elf even wanted the colours to go away - which was sadly not a wish that could be fulfilled.

Arwen placed a cup of something hot on his side table. "This will clear your sinuses. And lady Gilraen sends her best wishes to you for your recovery."

"...thank you." Elrond said, then coughed.

Arwen briefly stroked his brow, which was soothing, before departing and leaving her father to sleep.

Elrond did indeed slumber for a time, but was awoken by soft golden footsteps, which sent soft sparks like fireworks across his closed eyelids.

It was Estel. He knew without even opening his eyes.

"...Adar?"

Elrond turned his head, the boy was peaking over the edge of the bed - round eyes blinking curiously, in one hand he clutched an asorted bunch of weeds. Their roots dusted dirt onto the floor.

"Ma said you were sick." The boy stage whispered. "But I thought elves couldn't get sick..."

Elrond had just enough energy for a soft smile. "I'm a half elven, penneth nin, I can be ill - though it's quite rare."

Not rare enough in Elrond's opinion.

Estel reached over, and patted the elf's cheek with his hand. "It's okay. Ma said that you can give flowers to someone whose under the weather and- and it helps them feel better." He triumphantly held up his handful of dandelions.

"...for me?" Elrond asked.

Estel nodded.

Despite himself, Elros was touched by such a sweet, innocent gesture. He took the weeds and sniffed them. "How kind, I shall keep them here." He let the dandelions sit by his tea cup, still full and cooling now.

Estel seemed pleased with this, and tip toed from the room as if trying not to wake a slumbering giant.

"Hope you are well again soon, Adar." He said through a crack in the door, before shutting it as he left.

"I do too." Elrond replied to the air, finally taking a sip of his tea.


End file.
